Il Mondo Nuovo
by A Drop of Starlight
Summary: It was all Romano wanted, escape. Escape and freedom. But maybe he never stood a chance, since that one Spanish painter he met in Barcelona just won't let go. /Spamano, possible three-shot


Freedom always tasted better in the mornings. All sweet, no unpleasant aftertaste whatsoever. Romano savored it like a sun-ripened tomato as he sauntered down the street, hands tucked into his coat pockets for warmth, listening to the comforting tap-tap of his shoes against the pavement. It was a balmy Spanish day, birds were chirping all around, and there were plenty of passersby around to receive his insolent looks.

Straying from the main street, he entered a nearby park, its grassy grounds empty since the city kids weren't even up yet. Ignoring the few early birds who had come to take a stroll, Romano plopped down on a nearby bench and lit himself a cigarette. With no wind to scatter it, the smoke wreathed his face and hands like so many ghosts.

"_Chi non può fare come vuole, faccia come può_," he said experimentally, watching his words float away on a gray-white cloud, and laughed silently to himself.

Well, he _had _done what he could. Everything, in fact. And Romano was damn proud of it.

Twenty-two years old and he finally knew true freedom. No ties to anyone or anything in the world, he thought with triumph. He could walk where he chose, smoke when he wanted—hell, even get himself a girl—

Or guy, he added just in time. No one could turn him out of doors for that now.

The burning end of his cigarette had exhausted itself, the bright red-orange ember fading rapidly to black. Romano let it fall with a careless jerk of his hand, and crushed it under the heel of his shoe, as he had every day for the past three months.

As he stretched, the sound of distant footsteps reached his ears, and he turned casually towards the source of the noise. It was a small group of four to five men, all dressed in the same dark suits, even matching black sunglasses. Romano watched them walk up the street, still faraway shadows, and snorted to himself. Even the businessmen in Barcelona got up early as hell, it seemed.

As they neared Romano could see they were five, faces expressionless and quiet. No briefcases, nothing. They were heading in his direction now, a line of black suits and black glasses, meticulously arranged. Almost robotic. A sudden warning sense tingled and quickly Romano stood, leaving his bench and purposefully crossing the park.

It took no time at all to realize the men were indeed following him.

And the strange men were fast. Romano sped up his pace, noticing there were more people at the intersection up ahead. Thank fucking goodness for the amount of tourists; if he got there in time he could just blend in with one of those crowds—

"Vargas!"

Romano froze.

The few seconds was all it took for the men to catch up. They surrounded him like a black wall, tall and threatening. The tallest of them stepped forward and removed his sunglasses. His was a familiar, ironically humorous Italian face, that spoke of ruggedness and something else unwholesome.

"Laudisi," Romano hissed, narrowing his eyes.

"Good to know you still recognize me," said Laudisi dryly, with the sarcastic grin Romano still remembered. "So three months wasn't enough for you to forget?"

"What the hell are you here for?"

"You're twenty-two, Romano. Think. You haven't forgotten. Why else would I be here?"

Romano set his jaw. "I'm not going back with you."

"Oh, but you must. I obey orders when they are given, Romano Vargas. You should know that by now."

"Well then, fuck you too."

One of Laudisi's accomplices caught him by the arm; Romano elbowed him in the stomach and shouldered away a second, shorter man. They fell back, leaving a gap in the circle, and before they could react Romano had darted out and melted into the crowd crossing the street.

But not before turning and triumphantly giving the stunned men the finger.

—

The second time he was a bit more careful. Five a.m. came and went, and Romano stayed in his hotel room, listening to his phone buzz with texts from Feliciano. Strange that he hadn't already racked up sky-high phone bills—trying to contact your brother from art school in America cost money.

Romano knew better than to answer them at this hour. Doing so would only bring on a greater flurry of anxious messages like "Where are you," "Where did you go" (apparently there was a difference), "Are you eating and drinking and sleeping," and then of course, "Go back home, Roma, it's not safe." Of course it was easy for Feli to say; he barely knew how things were back at home.

Angrily he silenced his phone and shoved it deep in his jeans pocket. Romano was a man now, and a man could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

He left the hotel, made sure no one was following, and crossed the street, emerging onto _La Rambla_, which he had learned was the most interesting and crowded quarter of Barcelona. Everywhere he went he could hear voices shouting, talking, whispering in Spanish. Romano understood it all; there was one part of his education that hadn't gone to waste.

_Good-fucking-morning, world, _he thought as a pretty girl passed by and smiled at him. Just to be suave Romano grinned back, but then he saw her walk over to a burly, unfriendly man who looked so much like her, he had to be her brother. He was glaring, but Romano decided it was too early to pick a fight. Instead he waved insolently at them and walked on.

His mind was on other things as he stopped to buy some tomatoes from a nearby stand, and as he ate them he reflected on yesterday's encounter with Laudisi.

Clearly the man and his cronies had been following Romano ever since he'd left Italy, which had been _three damn months ago_. And he hadn't been sitting in Barcelona those three months, waiting to be found. No—he'd arrived in Madrid first, dawdled around in the city for a week, then stopped in all the major cities on the way to Valencia, then spent the rest of the time going north to Barcelona. They must've been tracing his monetary transactions or some shit like that, because that was the only way anyone would know.

Lost in thought, and for the moment confident that no one could see him among the Spaniards and tourists, Romano didn't notice the three men following behind him or the two approaching from the opposite direction. When he did, it was when he stopped at the corner to peer into the window of a small shop, and saw their reflections around him. By then it was too late. He was in the shadows, he was surrounded, and there was only one thing to do.

He turned around.

"I thought I told you guys to fuck off," he snapped. "Maybe I forgot. Well, _fuck off_."

They did not fuck off, but stood still as robots, waiting. Romano noted with pride that two of them stood a little unsteadily, probably still pained from yesterday. Laudisi, meanwhile, was sardonic as usual.

"We aren't going to hurt you, Romano," he drawled. "Just come quietly with us and everything will be okay."

Romano curled his lip. "And if I don't?"

"You might be arrested for causing trouble on foreign streets. And _then _your father would be much displeased."

"Guess there's no other choice for me, huh?"

"Just restrain him," Laudisi said tiredly to his companions. "The old man's orders were to bring young Vargas back, unharmed."

"How utterly touching," muttered Romano, watching them step closer. "He really must care about me to send you bastards. Why don't you just go back, tell him I'm alive and kicking, and let that be the end of it? We all know he doesn't give a fuck about anything else."

"Orders are orders."

"I would hate to see _you _arrested while carrying out your precious fucking orders," Romano gritted out, searching rapidly for escape routes. Why in fuck had no one else noticed them? But people were passing by with nervous looks and he knew he wasn't going to get help anytime soon. Two of the men had come forward; Romano found his back to the window, the door some distance to his right, and the exit through the alley was now blocked. Well, there was nothing for it. They were already reaching for him.

"Don't be sissies!" Laudisi was hissing. "Grab him and let's go!"

"Get your filthy hands _off_ me!"

Romano kneed one of them in the gut, and punched the other in the face, relishing their cries of pain. For a second he stood victorious, and then he was pinned against the wall by Laudisi himself.

God damn, the son of a bitch had gotten taller since Romano had last seen him. And stronger too—Romano's shoulder hurt from the vicelike grip on it.

"I said," Laudisi murmured, his face sinister in the shadows, "that you were to come with us, and _quietly_."

"What a pity that _quiet _is not in my vocabulary," snarled Romano, rearing back and headbutting him. There was a loud smack as their foreheads collided painfully, and Laudisi grunted, loosening his hold; but before Romano could run for it the man had tripped him with his outstretched foot. Laudisi jerked him around by the collar, a feral look distorting his features.

"Come with me, _now_, or it won't be pretty—"

Three things happened at once. An arm appeared from out of nowhere, sending a heavy book smashing into the back of Laudisi's head; his eyes rolled back in his head and he let go of Romano, crumpling to the ground. Romano took the opportunity to kick him aside. And before he knew it he was being dragged backward, by another strong someone, into a dark deserted passageway.

He twisted and turned but could only see the tall silhouette of a man holding onto his arms.

"Who the hell are you?" he hissed. "Let go—!"

A large hand clamped over his mouth. "You have to be quiet," said a low voice, in Spanish. "This is a secret way through the building. Hurry and follow me before he wakes up and they find the door."

This time Romano was glad to be quiet. His savior led him through several winding halls, each as dark as the last, without a sound. One of his hands still encircled Romano's arm, pulling him along. It was quite warm.

When the sounds of Laudisi's men had faded into the distance, Romano thought it safe to speak.

"Where are we?"

The man beside him laughed softly. His voice had a pleasant ring to it. "The other side is a bar. Sometimes people use this hall to enter or leave secretly."

Romano listened hard, but couldn't hear any music or even the clink of glasses. And the man beside him was still invisible. "Who are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"_You _came out of nowhere and pummeled that bastard like nothing. I think _I_ have a right to know."

They were walking faster now, or rather the man was, and Romano was just being pulled along. For a moment there was no answer. Then the man said, "My name is Antonio. What's yours?"

Romano turned to grin triumphantly at him, or at least in his approximate direction. "None of your business."

"That's a long name. Well, nice to meet you, None of Your Business. Hope to see you again soon!"

They had reached the exit, it appeared. Morning light shone through cracks up ahead, illuminating the outline of a door. Antonio opened it quickly and ushered Romano outside into the blinding sun.

"Good luck. Walk fast and keep an eye out, all right?"

Romano felt he owed Antonio thanks, but already the door was closing fast behind him. The only thing the Italian saw of his savior was a flash of green eyes, green enough to leave him blinking in the sunlight.

—

For the next three days Romano enjoyed relative peace and quiet, remaining in his hotel room for extra security. Thankfully, no one disturbed him, and he heard no more from Laudisi. There were only the texts from Feliciano which _wouldn't fucking stop coming_.

After the third day passed without event, Romano took it as a sign that Laudisi and his cronies had finally given up, and ventured outside. He had just run out of tomatoes and had to replenish his stock as soon as possible.

His first impulse upon having made his purchases was to take a detour before going back to his hotel. But on second thought he realized Laudisi and his men could be mucking around in the streets by now. And worse, they might've found out already where he was staying.

Romano decided he still wanted his few worldly possessions and passport. He headed back, using the crowds as cover, and returned to find the entire place surrounded by people. There was no way anyone could have tried to film a movie there—it was just a brick tower basically—but even as Romano thought it his suspicions had caught up to him.

He approached from the shadows of a nearby decrepit building, and his heart promptly sank as he discerned a few men in navy uniform.

Police.

"What happened here?" he asked an older man, who was standing a safe distance away and observing the second floor worriedly.

"Someone broke into the hotel, through that third window up there," he said, pointing. "We can't even enter while they're investigating... I don't know what I'll do when my wife comes back..."

Romano had stopped listening; with horror he recognized the location of his own room.

Pushing past the rest of the crowd, restraining the impulse to shout abuses of Laudisi and his bastards, he made his way to the hotel lobby. There a policeman stopped him.

"I am sorry, _Señor_, but you are not allowed to enter—"

"It was my room that they broke into," Romano said loudly.

"Oh, then that is different. We've inspected everything, nothing seems lost. The boys are just checking for fingerprints right now."

Romano was sure there wouldn't be any. Certain men in connection with his father had different ways of doing things.

The police returned his duffel bag, the only bit of luggage he had brought with him. Romano took a moment to inspect its contents. Everything was still there—all his money, his passport, and credit card were safe, in the secret compartment he had stitched for them.

"That's strange," said the policeman, but Romano had nothing more to ask. Without giving his real name, and muttering something about personal safety, he left the hotel by the back door and thus avoided the worst of the investigations.

"Fuck it all," he said to himself.

He emerged on the street feeling lonely and pursued. It was a dangerous combination. Unhappily Romano walked onto one of the main streets and halfheartedly hailed a taxi. To his surprise, one arrived fairly quickly, and without looking back he got inside.

"Just take me to the farthest hotel from here," he growled without preamble.

"That might be a little far, _Señor_—"

"I'll pay," interrupted a familiar voice to his left, and Romano almost jumped out of his seat, hitting his head against the ceiling.

"_You_? Again?"

"But why not?" exclaimed the man Romano now knew to be Antonio. He was grinning from ear to ear. "I said we'd meet again, didn't I? I heard this morning there was trouble here, and I figured it had something to do with you. So I came by to see what happened."

Romano narrowed his eyes. "Stalker."

"_Señor_," said Antonio, turning to the driver, "if you could take us to"—here he rattled off some hotel name Romano didn't catch—"as fast as possible, that would be great." The driver nodded and within minutes they had left the crime scene behind.

In the few seconds Antonio had turned away, Romano took the chance to steal a look at him. There were the green eyes he had seen, brighter by daylight, in a pleasant smiling face. He had brown hair, darker than Romano's, and such an air of innocence and friendliness about him that Romano wasn't sure what to make of it. Embarrassingly, Antonio caught him staring, but his only response was a grin.

"So what happened?" he asked with plain curiosity.

"Nothing." Romano was aware that his duffel bag was still painfully visible on his right. "I needed a change of scene."

"Did someone try to borrow your things?"

"Very funny."

"Every time I see you," mused Antonio as though they were old friends, "there's always someone after you. Are you wanted by Interpol or something?"

"_No_—do _you_ want a punch to the face?" Romano hissed. "I make the best fist sandwiches."

Antonio laughed—what man dared laugh in the face of such threats?—and patted Romano's shoulder. "I was kidding! What's your name?"

"How do I know you're not after my ass?"

"Because I'm not. And it would be hard calling you None of Your Business all the time."

The Italian gave him a grimace. "Romano," he allowed. It was just this once, anyway, and if Antonio tried anything he was in for it. "I'm not a fucking criminal, in case you were wondering. There are criminals after _me_."

"That sounds scary," said Antonio, somehow not looking scared at all. "You'd better stick with me, then. I'll protect you!"

"Unless you're a police officer, that isn't very comforting."

"But everyone needs help now and then!" the Spaniard went on as though he hadn't heard. "You must be lonely, Romano. It's no fun running around Spain if you can't stop to see everything."

"And…?"

"I'll help you with that!" Antonio grinned, looking as happy as Feliciano in a good mood, and Romano felt a sudden pang in his chest that had nothing to do with his loneliness.

Well, he thought to himself as the taxi pulled up in front of their hotel, maybe he would try making friends this once.

If Antonio turned out otherwise, he could always make for a good punching bag.

—

The Spaniard was obviously in a talkative mood. All the way up to Romano's room (the stalker) he chattered about the sights one could see in Barcelona. And it turned out he wasn't even from Barcelona at all, but from Madrid.

"There's more sea here though," he said, still with that satisfied grin. "It's nicer to paint."

"You came here to _paint_?" spluttered Romano. This guy was becoming more like Feliciano by the second. "And that's it?"

"Why not? I sell them sometimes. People like them well enough."

Romano shot a sideways look at him, and thought he couldn't be more than twenty-five. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. Antonio's smile faltered a little.

"No," he said, more quietly this time. "I would go if I could. But I need to make my own money. Sometimes if no one buys paintings I help my friend at the bookstore."

Romano was chagrined. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, don't apologize. It's all right." Antonio had already regained his easygoing grin. "But what about you? You're not from around here. I can tell."

"I—" The Italian wondered just how much he should tell. "I left school. And I left Italy," he said at last. Antonio stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Is that why those people were looking for you?"

"Yes and no," said Romano tiredly. "It's a long story. I'll tell you some other time."

"Well, all right." The Spaniard smiled at him, a genuine smile with genuine concern. It was a long time since Romano had received anything like it—or maybe he was just deceiving himself. "Go rest. If anything happens call me! I live in that apartment block just across the street, second floor like you. I'll show you around first thing in the morning, how about it?"

"Really now?" Romano muttered as he opened the door to his room. He didn't quite catch Antonio's answer, but it didn't matter. He had made a friend, and he had just found an extra tomato in his pocket. Things were looking pretty damn good.

—

"Rise and shine, Romano, it's seven-thirty!"

Romano answered with a loud groan and pulled his pillow over his ears. But it wasn't enough to drown out Antonio's knocking and bright voice.

"Wake up, Romano! You've been in there since yesterday, I bet! Did you drink, or—"

"I'm pretty sure I didn't order alcohol from room service," Romano shouted back, finally giving up and rolling out of bed. His hair was a mess, but he thought blearily that Antonio's couldn't be much better. Without any adjustments whatsoever he went to open the door. There stood Antonio, fully dressed and with a pack slung over one shoulder. He studied Romano the way one would study a particularly beautiful tomato before plucking it off the vine.

"Are those… boxers?" he inquired at last. Romano looked down and then glared at him.

"Shut up." Slamming the door in Antonio's face, he hurriedly set about making himself presentable. Since when had things gotten so familiar? He was certain he'd met Antonio just yesterday. Maybe the man was like this to everyone.

Still Romano made sure his most important possessions were safely stashed away before reopening the door.

"Ready now?" Antonio asked, his face brightening again. He looked too happy for his own good. "Let's go then—I've got plenty of things to show you!"

And Romano followed him, grumbling inwardly all the while, because he had always preferred traveling alone to the company of strangers. Only this was an exception. So he followed.

And of course he had no idea just what exactly he was in for.

* * *

><p><strong>Here I am posting another story when I have so many to update still... *ducks flying potatoes* I have no idea what I'm doing with this one. It might be a threeshot though, around that number. maybe. This is what happens when you daydream about Spain while being sick..<strong>

**Also no play intended on Pirandello (no pun intended either) but Laudisi was the only name that seemed to fit ;n; you guys should read _Right You Are (If You Think You_ _Are)_ and _Six Characters in Search of an Author_, which are wonderfully mind-boggling but have nothing to do with this story at all. :D**

**_Chi non può fare come vuole, faccia come può _- If you can't do as you may, do as you could.**

**Oh and before I forget - I do realize that Romano is his country name and Lovino is his human name, but I just thought Romano fit better here for some reason. X'D**


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